


A Rolling Stone

by abstractconcept



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Growth, Introspection, genfic, learning to get along with your neighbors, psychological fic, race relations in a fantasy setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-17
Updated: 2008-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 03:36:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1967487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abstractconcept/pseuds/abstractconcept
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vimes interviews a troll accused of assault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Rolling Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Just moving this over here as I noticed I'd never imported it.

The watchman blew a smoke ring, which Malachite watched balefully. "What's your name?" the man asked, riffling through some papers.

"Malachite," the troll grunted.

"Yeah? My sergeant Detritus says they call you Mal."

" _He can,_ maybe."

"I see."

Malachite shifted uncomfortably. His shoulder itched where he'd been hit by a falling bit o' der roof the other day. The scab was drivin' him _nuts_ , and on top o' dat it reminded him he still needed to fix der damn roof. And der handcuffs were a joke. Two rusty rings of metal—it was like dey didn't even care. Der trolls, dey weren't even scary dese days.

Hell, dere was even a baby crawlin' round on der floor, playin' wid cigar butts like they was toy soldiers. He glared at the baby, who smiled up at him, eyes wide. Mal noticed the kid had greenish-brown eyes, kinda like agates. Little marbles, maybe. Dey was kinda nice, actually.

The watchman cleared his throat—more like a growl, maybe, and Malachite looked up warily. The watchman was lookin' at him with those same agate eyes, but der watchman's eyes weren't nice at _all_. Dey was harder than flint, and Mal balled his hands into fists. "What?"

"You were looking at my—the baby, weren't you?" the man asked sharply.

"So? No law 'gains that. It ain't like I'm gonna eat der baby," he added scornfully. "Dey ain't good fer yer digestion, and anyways, little ting like dat ain't hardly a snack."

"If you attempt it, you'll get worse than a case of indigestion, I'll promise you that," the man snarled.

Mal shrugged. "Like I said, I ain't gonna eat no babies."

The watchman sighed. "Look, you don't even have a record. Want to tell me what you're doing in here?"

"Yer de ones dat dragged me in here," Mal protested. "Anyway, all I did was give dat man a flick behind der ear."

"You gave him a concussion," the watchman said flatly.

"How was I supposed ter know his head was so soft?" Mal complained. "I barely touched him! Ain't like I go around hittin' humans most o' der time. I didn't know dey was so fragile."

The watchman sighed again, and blew out another puff of smoke. "Yes, that is the thing, isn't it. You haven't a record, and it doesn't seem like you go around attacking people as a habit. So why _this_ time? What did _this_ one do?"

Mal shrugged. "I dunno." What was he supposed ter say? Dat dere wasn't supposed to be no humans on Quarry Lane? Dat would get him a big, fat zero in political kerr-ectness, dat was fer sure. He didn't even know why he had hit dat man. It just wasn't right, dat was all. Mal had lived all his life on Quarry Lane, and tings were really comin' to someting when monkeys were movin' in next door.

"Look, it wasn't for no good reason. Well, obviously there _isn't_ a good reason for bashing a helpless chartered accountant across the back of the head, unless maybe he did your taxes. But it had to have been _something_ ," the man said. "He must have said something, or looked at you funny, or you were out of your skull on Slab or Slice or Scrotum or something."

"Wut's Scrotum?"

"Never mind about that. _Were_ you on drugs?"

"No! I don't do none of dat stuff." Mal looked down at his hands. He knew he was in big trouble der minute dat accountant hit der dirt, and dat was a _fact_. Used to be, in Quarry Lane, you could say what you like and get into a bit o' friendly tussle, no big deal, but now der watch looked down on dat stuff. And dis wasn't even another troll; dis was an accountant! Mal knew whatever you got fer hittin' yer neighour, der penalty was prob'ly ten times worse if he was an accountant.

And Mal didn't _know_ why he'd done it.

"He dug up der garden," he finally said.

The watchman's eyebrows rose. "I beg your pardon?"

"Der garden by der side o' der house," Mal said helpfully. "He went and dug it all up."

The watchman settled back in his chair and gave Mal a long, suspicious look.

Mal shifted like an avalanche, feeling emotions tumbling round inside. He was feelin' der aagragaah, is what it was. Forebodings all over der place. People was movin' in, and dey weren't der kinds of people Mal knew what to do wid. Dey was _people_. Dat was _weird_ , havin' humans in der house next door. Roselite, she say leave 'em alone and dey'll leave you alone, but Mal couldn't seem to ignore dem, especially when he went and dug up der garden dat bordered der properties.

"I didn't know trolls kept gardens," the watchman said casually.

"Rock garden," Mal grunted. "He dug up all de pebbles an' put in all dis oograh—dis—dese _weeds_." Dat really burned him up. Dat garden was nice ter look at, and now dey had all dat nasty veg-e-tation crawlin' up between der houses. Humans, dey was just like oograh, Mal figured. Dey was always getting' in where dey wasn't wanted, makin' der place look scruffy. Who needed 'em? Besides, it gave Mal der fits der way dat man kept scuttlin' off whenever he saw Mal, like he was afraid or someting. Dat really bothered Mal a lot.

"I see. You do realize you could have killed Mr. Wesley, don't you?"

Was dat der man's name? Not dat it mattered, but somehow it made Mal feel worse about tings. He was gettin' all sedimental about dis.

"His poor wife has been worried sick."

This time Mal outright flinched. He was fick, but he knew Rosie was gonna be mad wid him over dis. And what if someone had done dat to _him?_ What would Rosie tink? He hated to fink of her bein' put in fear jus' 'cuz der neighbour was a big dumb rock.

"Anyway, he's refused to press charges, so I guess there's nothing much we can do at this point. But rest assured, if it happens again, there _will_ be consequences."

Mal blinked in amazement. "What? Why ain't he pressin' no charges?"

The watchman shrugged. "Damned if I know, but he says if they're planning to stay he supposes that they'll need to learn to get along with you on a long-term basis. I guess he thinks pressing charges wouldn't be getting off on the right foot or something."

Now Mal felt downright _ashamed_. Here he was, a ton of solid rock, and he weren't even der bigger man.

"So I guess that means you're free to go," the watchman added. He leaned forward and unlocked the handcuffs. "Thank you for helping us with our inquiries," he added sourly.

Mal was still sitting dere, blinkin' in bemusement, when der little boy took hold o' der table leg and stood up on wobbly legs, lookin' up wid dose big, shiny-agate eyes. He poked Mal in der knee and said, "Pitty."

He looked down at his legs. He ain't never gave much thought to dem—dey were jus' his legs, you know? But now he was tinkin' dey were kinda nice; polished shiny from scrubbin' der floors where he worked. "Pitty," der little boy repeated, rubbin' Mal's knee and looking awed by der knobby greenness, like it was someting special or someting.

If dat didn't beat all. Mal knew dat der humans couldn't tell if he were embarrassed, and he didn't get red or nothin' der way humans did, but dat sure was a ting. He been called a lot o' tings in his day, and "pretty" def'nitly wasn't one o' dem.

He stood up and stretched, scratchin' his itchy shoulder. Der scab come right off, a chip of malachite almost as big as his thumb. Tinkin' it over, he reached down and handed it to the little boy, who promptly held the brilliant green rock up for his father's inspection. It was as big as der boy's pudgy little fist. "Pitty!" he said again, beaming.

Mal patted der tyke on der head. It was fluffy and soft. He knew all 'bout dat now. Humans, dey were breakable. Trolls, on der other hand, dey were tough. He could handle a few o' dose humans movin' in next door. Dey weren't hurtin' anyting.

Commander Vimes stared at Malachite in astonishment. "Didn't that _hurt?_ " he said, looking at Malachite's shoulder as der troll made his way to der door.

Mal smiled widely back at him, causing der little boy to clap at the sudden dazzling light. "Naw," he said. "I reckon dat chip's been dere long enough, anyway."


End file.
